


Folie à Q

by Ehcimocs, FreyaOdin



Category: Pentatonix, Star Trek, Star Trek: The Next Generation, Superfruit
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Human Q, Humor, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Scomiche, Sexual Content, Sexual Humor, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-24 15:30:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14358369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ehcimocs/pseuds/Ehcimocs, https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaOdin/pseuds/FreyaOdin
Summary: Scott is a Starfleet captain on a mission of science and exploration. Mitch...apparently exists to drive him insane.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Co-written with the fantabulous Ehcimocs (check out [her other works on Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Ehcimocs)). Our eternal thanks to Lisa (PTX Librarian) for reminding us how much we wanted this AU. And also to Juli, who will figure out why when she gets there.

 

 

Scott frowns, blinking at the bridge's main viewscreen. He’s not going to say the first thing that comes to mind here. Just… no.  Instead, he tries to formulate a question befitting the dignity of the captain of a Federation starship.

“What the hell am I looking at, Esther?” Welp, almost.

“This should be Messier 69, Captain, a metal-rich globular star cluster,” Lieutenant Commander Kaplan-Koop stares at the control panel beneath her fingertips. “Elemental composition is consistent with records of M69, but star placements are… very much not.” She pauses and looks up at Scott. “Sir, our latest charts are less than 4 months old. It appears that the cluster has been... rearranged.”

That doesn’t sound good. “Any evidence as to what may have caused it?”

“None sir, although the, uh, configuration appears to be static.”

“Anyone else think that looks like a giant butt?” Commander Maldonado stands up and walks closer to the viewscreen. She turns to face Scott. “Sorry, but someone had to say it.”

Yep. He’s just glad that for once it wasn’t him. He can always count on Kirstie.

“Captain!” Lieutenant Sallee calls sharply, alarm clear in his voice, “sensors are detecting a powerful gravitational anomaly! Magnitude rapidly increasing. Dead ahead.”

In the centre of the altered star formation, a bright light flares to life, radiating from a central point. The ship lurches forwards, jolting the crew.

“Reverse engines, maximum force!” Scott yells.

The impulse drive thrums to life, but the image on the viewscreen doesn’t recede the way Scott anticipated. Instead, the ship appears to be straining against the pull of the anomaly.

“Lieutenant?”

“Sir, a singularity just opened up. We’re caught in its gravitational field.”

Shit. “Options?!”

Another brief flash of light appears - this time inside the bridge - and is accompanied by a sudden change in air pressure that makes Scott’s ears pop. Suddenly and inexplicably, there is an unfamiliar and very naked man standing in front of him, hands on hips.    

“Wow, how _screwed_ are _you_?” the man asks with obvious glee.

 

***

 

The mortals, of course, trigger their pathetic security procedures, and Q is soon staring down several phasers. He rolls his eyes and blinks them out of existence. Really, watching humanoids stare dumbly at their suddenly empty hands never gets old.

“Can’t a guy even create art in peace without some starship crashing headlong into his galactic canvas?” He walks around the bridge, examining the stations and walls like he’s curious about what they laughingly call technology, but really he’s circling the tall one who thinks himself in charge. “So who do I have the pleasure of incorporating into mixed media today?”

The tall one narrows his eyes. “I’m Captain Scott Hoying of the Federation starship Fragaria. This is my First Officer, Commander Kirstin Maldonado.” He points to the substantially smaller female beside him. “We’re on a peaceful scientific mission of exploration. We mean no harm to either you or your, um, art.” His gaze drops from Q’s eyes for a moment, before he obviously wrenches it back up, flushing. “Could we maybe provide you with some clothes?”

“Yes please,” Maldonado mutters.

Spoilsports. “Humanoids and their primitive sensibilities.” He claps his hands, entirely for show, and in a flash he’s clothed in a command red Starfleet uniform, the pips on his collar matching those of the captain in front of him. “Better?”

“You’re a Q!” Hoying exclaims, like he’s made a brilliant insight.

“Look who just caught up!”

“Captain!” The lieutenant at the helm is frantically tapping buttons on his console. “Thirty seconds until we pass the singularity’s event horizon!”

Hoying steps anxiously towards the viewscreen, and Q suppresses a laugh as he stares into the black hole his ship is about to penetrate. Then he turns to Q, jaw clenched. “Release my ship!”

“Patience, Captain. No matter what they’ve told you, no one appreciates premature release.”

The ships shudders as the gravitational pull begins to compromise the bulkheads. Hoying manages to balance himself with a glare and a hand on the helm, while the rest of his crew hangs onto their seats and consoles for dear life.

Q is, of course, unaffected. “You’re hot when you’re angry, did you know?”

“Q!”

He rolls his eyes. “You’re also no fun.” With a clap of his hands, he pulls the Fragaria free, spinning her half a lightyear out of danger in a flash of his power.

Most of the bridge crew stays upright, clinging to their stations, however Hoying goes flying, his back hitting the wall near the screen as the ship rights itself.

He ends up sprawled on the floor, rubbing the back of his head. “Ow! That hurt!”

Maldonado calls for medical assistance, but Q merely rolls his eyes again. With a final clap, he summons an ice pack. “Don’t be such a baby.”

 

***

 

Q watches Hoying from time to time after that. He’s interesting in a way Q has rarely experienced. It’s refreshing.

Currently, he’s taking a rare water shower, arm braced against the wall, breathing heavily as he pleasures himself. Q lets him continue, watches his hand move faster and faster, before the urge to interrupt becomes too much to resist.

He pops into existence right in front of Hoying, allowing the water to continue passing through his form to splash on the mortal’s flesh. “I have to say, the inked flowers are more adventurous than I expected.”

“The fuck??” Hoying shrieks. His obvious indecision on whether to cover or defend himself leads to him cowering in the corner of the stall, one arm and leg curled across his body with his other hand raised in a fist.

It’s hilarious. Q eyes Hoying up and down, smirking, before tilting his head to meet angry blue eyes. “You’re doing this wrong. You need to keep stroking to reach orgasm, don’t you?”

“GET OUT!”

“Rude!” Q says, grinning as he pops back to being invisible to human senses.

Hoying slowly uncurls himself, resting his head on the tiles in front of him for a long moment before blindly reaching over to reset the water controls to near-freezing.

Q hasn’t had this much fun in millenia.

 

***

 

“Captain’s Log, Stardate 47123.7,” Hoying says, swiping through whatever notes he has on his datapad as he speaks.

Q settles in to listen. Hoying’s been edgier lately, for some reason. More prone to outbursts. It’s dramatically increasing his entertainment value.

“Having determined the source of the... _disruption_ to cluster M69, the Fragaria has been ordered to examine a nearby Class D planetoid -- What’s its designation again, Lieutenant Commander Kaplan-Koop?”

“D55 Alpha 3728, sir,” Kaplan-Koop answers from operations.

“Catchy...ordered to examine D55 Alpha 3728 to determine if our preliminary readings of Traker deposits are consistent with the presence of dilithium crystals.”

“Bor-ing.” Q flashes into existence across the currently unoccupied Medical Officer’s chair, artfully draped so that his Starfleet regulation boots are in Hoying’s lap. “Spoiler: there’s no dilithium, it’s all just a very sad, _impotent_ collection of ionized pyrosulphate.” He lets his gaze drop to just below his boots as he enunciates the word ‘impotent’, because why not?

Hoying has the most interesting method of clenching his jaw.

“Why should we believe you?” Commander Maldonado asks from Hoying’s other side.

“I don’t care if you do. Either you waste an excruciatingly long time determining that I’m correct, which I always am, or you move on and spend the rest of your short lives wondering if you deprived your Federation of a big, sexy energy source out of laziness.” Q pauses to stretch his arms over his head, letting his command shirt ride up as he does. “Either way, I’m amused.”

Hoying appears momentarily mesmerized by Q’s stretch, but collects himself, shoving Q’s legs off his lap so he can get up and peer at the readings at the ops station. “Do we have any supporting data one way or the other?”

Both Lieutenant Sallee and Lieutenant Commander Kaplan-Koop shake their heads. “It’s too early to tell, sir,” Kaplan-Koop says. “The Traker readings are consistent with those found with dilithium, but similar deposits have been found with only pyrosulphate as well.”

Hoying puffs out a breath. “Great. Well, we have our orders, and since the only contradictory info is from a completely unreliable source--”

“I resent that!”

“--continue scanning as planned.”

“Yes, sir,” answer both Sallee and Kaplan-Koop.

Hoying turns back to his command chair, and seems disappointed to find Q still there.

“No, no, keep overseeing your crew, Captain,” Q says with a wave. “The view is surprisingly better when you’re bent over a console.”

Hoying flushes bright red. “Get the fuck off my bridge!”

Q laughs and pops out, still watching.

Hoying runs his hand through his hair. “Motherfucking omnipotent asshole!”

“Uh, Scott?” Commander Maldonado says, eyes carefully on her datapad, the hint of a lopsided smirk on her lips. “The log is still running, so this is all officially on Starfleet record?”

“God dam--er, Computer, end log!”

 

***

 

“Hi, honey. How was work?” Q asks as the door swooshes open.

Hoying stops dead before he’s more than a foot into his quarters. Might be because of the table for two, complete with satin tablecloth, single red rose, fine china, and long tapered candles that have suddenly appeared in the middle of his living room.

“Hope you’re hungry!” Q picks up one of the twin crystal glasses and holds it up to the light. “Red or white?”

“Can you just...not?”

“It’s prime rib. Traditionally a bold red would be most appropriate, but an oaked Chardonnay or Brut Champagne might do if you’re feeling contrary.” He stares at Hoying for a second. “What am I saying, you’re always contrary. White it is.”

“What do I need to do to get you to go away?”

Q sets the glass down and presses a hand to his chest. “Why, Captain. I’d almost think you didn’t like me.”

“Almost?” Hoying stalks over to the replicator, stabbing at the controls and never taking his eyes off of Q. “Dr. Pepper, _ice cold._ ”

Q curls his lip as the drink shimmers into existence. “With steak? Philistine.”

“Are you here for a reason?”

“How’d the readings go? Find any dilithium?”

Hoying scowls into his drink. “You know we didn’t.”

Q flutters his eyelashes and breaks out his best empath impression. “I’m sensing… frustration. Annoyance, perhaps?” He smirks and licks his lips, “Lust?”

Hoying abruptly switches his drink to his other hand and taps his communicator. “Hoying to Transporter Room Two. Initiate pattern Quebec Echo Delta.”

“Aye. sir.”

Q pouts as the beam locks on. “See if I ever wear my prettiest dress for you again!”

He reappears just outside Hoying’s window, floating in open space. With a nonchalant shrug, Q produces a lipstick, uncaps it, and adds an extra swipe to his lips. He leans forward, kisses the transparent aluminum, laughs at Hoying’s ridiculous expression, and vanishes with a lewd wink.

 _Definitely_ lust.

 

***

 

Q times it perfectly. Not that it was difficult; all he had to do was freeze the bridge around him until a split second before the turbolift doors open and Hoying steps out for his standard evening check that all is well before retiring for the night.

Q is certain he wasn’t expecting to see a 21st century 2D movie on the main viewscreen, nor Q lounging sideways in his command chair, face propped in the palm of one hand, a giant bowl of popcorn in his lap.

Q flicks a kernel into the air, catching it in his mouth and chewing thoughtfully before asking “Is there some reason for them to sparkle? And why are they attending educational programs intended for adolescents despite being substantially older than the average human lifespan of the time?”

Hoying plants himself directly in front of the command chair, hands on his hips, looking for all the multiverse like he expects Q to move. “Do you really have _nothing_ better to do?”

Q puts his hand on his chin and pretends to ponder for a moment. “Nope!”

 

***

 

It’s somehow even funnier the next night.

“How the hell is this considered romantic by your species?” Q asks, gesturing vaguely at the screen. “There’s clearly room for two on the door, surely even your insignificant brains can see that? Or is a frozen, watery death some sort of bizarre mating ritual?”

The evening shift bridge crew blinks in confusion at once again being rebooted, while Hoying just sighs one of his increasingly impressive sighs and heads straight back into the turbolift.

 

***

 

Hoying is in a hotel room on Risa the next time Q stops by.  He’s sprawled on his back, eyes closed, obviously enjoying the attention the Trill kneeling between his knees is lavishing on his cock.

“Ah,” Q says, popping into the visual spectrum. “You _do_ prefer males. I’d wondered.”

Hoying’s eyes fly open, and it’s for the best that his partner pulls back in surprise, otherwise he’d likely have choked as Hoying sits up, grabbing at the covers. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

“Oh, sorry,” Q says, utterly insincerely. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Bullshit!”

“See? We’re really getting to know each other!”

The flustered Trill looks from one to the other and starts gathering his clothes.

“Wait, Medran. Please,” Hoying says, running a hand down the Trill’s back. “Stay? He’ll leave.” He glares at Q in what he probably thinks is a threatening manner.

The Trill shakes his head, pulling on his pants. “You’re very attractive, and I like you, but I’m not interested in either surprises or threesomes.”

“No, I didn’t--” Whatever argument Hoying was going to make is moot, because the Trill is already out the door.

Hoying watches him go then turns on Q, glare back in full force.

Something tightens in Q’s gut, or where Q’s gut would be if he actually took full humanoid form. It’s...disconcerting.

He needs to break the tension. “So the spots really do go all the way down, huh?”

Hoying flops back into his pillows. “I hate you so much.”

 

***

 

Hoying’s face is flushed, pink down to his neck and across the tips of his ears. His hair is wild, like he’s run his fingers through it in frustration multiple times. It’s awesome. He’s pacing back and forth across his ready room, ranting and gesturing wildly, while the woman on the screen -- dressed in a Starfleet admiral’s uniform -- watches him impassively. Scott’s demeanor is in glorious contrast to her expression; she clearly couldn’t give a flying fuck and it just makes the whole situation that much sweeter.

The admiral’s face remains completely inscrutable as Hoying rattles off a long list of Q’s work. It’s pretty impressive, actually, hearing it all catalogued like this. And, oh, would you look at that; the noodle incident warrants a raised eyebrow. Q was starting to wonder if she was an AI.

Well then, time to see if he can garner an actual reaction.

 _Clap_.

Hoying stops mid-pace, and rolls his eyes in sufferance. “Q! Give me back my damn clothes, you infuriating fucker!”

There's only the barest hint of a smirk on the admiral’s lips. “Ah, yes Captain. I can see your point.”

 

***

 

The party is just getting started when Hoying walks through the door. Obviously, he’s expecting to get a drink in the boring little bar they call Ten Forward, and Q enjoys the look on his face as he takes in the shimmering swimming pool, complete with lounge chairs, palm trees, and a tiki bar. He squints in the false sunlight, and his expression turns from confused to annoyed as he spies Q, comfortably reclined on the giant pineapple-shaped floatie in the centre of the pool.

Ah, the moment Q’s been waiting for. Hoying’s overdressed though, and that just won’t do. Q claps his hands, and Hoying’s uniform is replaced by a set of tiny blue swimming briefs. A floppy straw hat and a stripe of pink zinc down his nose complete his look. Q’s not a monster, so he claps a large margarita into his hand while he’s at it.

Perfect.

“What have you done to my ship now?”

Q splashes a bit before pulling his hands through the water and starting the pineapple in a cheery spin. “Improved it!” he yells over his shoulder.

Hoying sighs. Commander Maldonado lifts her sunglasses to stare at him, and he sits on the lounge chair beside her. “Name one reason why I shouldn’t put you on report for not warning me, Kirstin.”

She side-eyes him and takes a sip from the Mai Tai she’d demanded earlier. “I can’t stop him and he’s always here. I’m off duty, and I figured I might as well enjoy it for once.” She lowers her glasses back down and tilts her face to bask in the ‘sun’. “You should too, you’re clearly in desperate need of a tan.”

Hoying settles onto the lounger next to her. “Something tells me I’m going to regret this,” he mutters, side-eyeing Q.

It’s predictable, childish even, and Q would be the first to admit that popping over and burying his face in Hoying’s soft stomach with a loud BZERT isn’t exactly the most dignified move for one of the most powerful beings in the universe.

But Hoying’s thunderous expression is totally worth it.

 

***

 

Having failed to get even a scrap of sympathy from the admiral, Hoying’s now seeking advice from Picard, of all people. Honestly, none of his playful antics even compare to the stunts that other Q has pulled over the years. It’s not like he’s flung the Fragaria into the path of a Borg cube or gone all grand inquisitor on Hoying’s ass. He's insulted by the comparison. Q sneers as Picard blathers on about ‘setting firm boundaries’ with an air of fatherly concern, like Q’s some toddler going through a difficult phase.

It’s all excruciatingly tedious and he’s just contemplating turning his attention elsewhere, when he hears Hoying refer to him as “My Q”. Well. Isn’t that interesting? He claps his hands, disconnecting the link to Picard, and appears in the chair opposite the captain with a flash.

“Am I really _yours,_ dear captain?”

Hoying rolls his eyes in exasperation. “ _Not_ what I meant and you know it. And how the hell else am I supposed to differentiate?”

Q shrugs smugly. Not his problem.

“You need a name,” Hoying says, pointing. And no.

“I have a name.”

“One that isn't shared between the entire fucking Continuum.” Hoying looks up at the ceiling in apparent contemplation.

“I’m not a dog, Hoying, you can't just _name_ me.”

“John?”

“Oh sure, pick a name shared by several billion life forms. You might as well stick with Q.”

“Bob, Sam, Joe, Brad?”

“Plebeian. All of them. Really, Scotty-boy, is that the best you can do?”

Hoying’s eyes narrow. “Tiberius”

Q laughs loudly. “Oh, you’re funny, Hoying. I do like that in a human.”  

“Quentin. Quinn. Quaid. Quincey. Oooh, _Quagmire_.”

“I’m not even going to dignify those with a response.”

“No? How about...Mitchell?”

“Seriously, you’re not even trying. And I’ve told you before; I am _Q_. You don't get to change that.”

“Mitchell it is!” Hoying claps and has the audacity to spin his chair around in glee. “Mitchy. Mitch-a-roo. Mitch. I like it. It rhymes with how I think of you.”

He’s going to regret this. Q will make sure of it.

 

***

 

Of course, Q doesn’t spend all his time bothering Hoying and the Fragaria. He has other interests. Hobbies. Confounding the Borg is fun; watching the temper tantrums of a true queen is always worth the experience. There’s also a species of parasitical nematode on Janus VI that’s surprisingly mesmerizing, mostly for its digestive effects on Horta. There’s nothing like the distressed flatulence of a silicon-based lifeform to brighten up an immortal’s day.

It’s a long and often-dull existence, being a Q. He’s seen most of what exists already. But that doesn’t mean things can’t change in the eons since he last meandered a particular way.

Take Jhisz II, a small, lonely rock deep in the heart of the Triangulum Galaxy. Last time Q came by here, it was lifeless, with just a few amino acids and triazines floating around in an otherwise boring soup. But now, in less than the time it takes for the Jhisz sun’s light to reach Hoying’s homeworld, not only is abiogenesis well underway, but there are even a few multicellular organisms floating around, violently murdering each other and everything else at every opportunity.

He watches them for a while. A species of social protozoan is especially interesting, engulfing smaller creatures as food, rapidly destroying their own environment, all the while hornily waving pili around and conjugating with anyone they meet.

A truer model for humanoid life, Q has never seen.

In retrospect, it’s hardly surprising that it’s his sense of humour that does him in. He can’t even help himself. A stray thought, a clap, and a flash of light later, and the pili have all transformed into tiny penis-shaped structures, mimicking an array of humanoid species, complete with pubes and whatever number of testes or lack thereof is appropriate by type.

They continue waving and secreting and conjugating, and Q laughs uproariously for a few seconds until he’s joined by a second Q.

She is _not_ laughing. Then she summons a bunch of her friends, and they’re not laughing either.

Oops.

 

_***_

 

Q has a fairly good idea where the council will banish him, but it still comes as a relief when he arrives, in a familiar burst of bright light, on the bridge of the USS Fragaria. In a somewhat petty move, the council has chosen to deposit him mid-air and he drops like a stone, landing with a thump in a crumpled heap at the foot of the Captain’s chair.

At least he’s clothed. Being naked on the bridge is only fun when it’s his idea. _And_ when he can control the temperature.

“Q,” Hoying states flatly. “To what do we owe this displeasure?”

He feels a sudden warmth of familiarity, looking up at Hoying’s irritated face. As perverse as it may seem, this human is the closest thing he has to a friend in the whole multiverse. He moves onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, resting his head against his hand.

“Frown all you like, Captain, I can see you’re celebrating on the inside. Admit it.” It’s a typical response, similar to hundreds of phrases they’ve sparred with, but the words feel hollow in his mouth. Q really is glad to see him.

“What do you want, Q?” Hoying sighs.

Q takes a deep breath and stands up. “Sanctuary”

Hoying blinks. “Sanctuary.”

“I am no longer a member of the Continuum. I have been stripped of my powers. I am at your mercy.”

“Really.” Hoying states, disbelief clear on his face.  

“You don’t believe me!”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“How can I possibly prove the _absence_ of my powers?”

“There’s always the airlock.”

“Captain! You _wouldn’t_!”

Hoying pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do I even want to know why we are _all_ being punished?”

Q waves his hand dismissively. "An overreaction. It was one teeny tiny breach of decorum.” He ignores the incredulous expression the word ‘ _decorum_ ’ earns him. “Barely a blip, really. How was I supposed to know that it was going to disrupt an experiment one of the other Q had been monitoring for a few thousand millennia; I’m only _partially_ omnipotent. Well, was. Past tense. Human now. Flesh and blood. Prick me and I shall bleed. Only don’t, because I think that would hurt.”

“If he wants to be treated as mortal, sir, may I suggest we offer him accommodations?” Commander Maldonado asks pointedly.

“Of course, Commander. Excellent idea. Security! Escort Q to the brig.”

That? Could have gone better.

 

***

_To be continued..._


	2. Two

Captain Hoying, Commander Maldonado, and Doctor Olusola cluster on the other side of the brig’s force field the next morning, identical expressions on their faces that give nothing away.

Q stares at them all in horror. “Normal?” he croaks, “You call that,  _ normal _ ? It was the most unpleasant experience of my life! I felt my very existence slip away - pulled into a dark void filled with vivid and disturbing visions!” 

“To sleep, perchance to dream,” the doctor says calmly. “You’ll get used to it.” As if it’s  _ nothing _ .  

“I’ll get used--? How often does it happen?”

“As a human, you’ll need about seven hours of sleep in every twenty-four hour cycle,” the doctor replies in a maddeningly reasonable tone.

“Every day? You endure that every _ day _ ? For  _ seven hours _ ?! How the hell your species ever made it to the stars is completely beyond me. How did you even find the time to master  _ fire _ ?”

Maldonado exchanges a look with Hoying. She raises her eyebrows. “I’ll admit, if this is a ruse, he’s going to some lengths to maintain it.” 

The doctor makes a non-committal noise and hands Hoying a data pad. “Every test I’ve run indicates that he’s as human as you or I, although we all know meddling with medical diagnostics would be a trivial task for any Q.”

“True,” Maldonado shrugs, “but we’re not scheduled to dock with a Federation starbase for a few months yet. If he really is human, I’d rather not confine him here without good reason. As annoying and disruptive as his previous antics have been, he’s hasn't technically violated any Federation laws that I’m aware of. Except perhaps for unauthorized entry onto a Starfleet vessel, but as an alien representative, he’d probably be able to claim diplomatic immunity…”

“Not to sexual harassment,” Hoying mutters under his breath.

Maldonado hesitates. “You’d have to put the shower thing on record.”

Hoying shudders. “Nope. Diplomatic immunity, keep going.”

“Right. Anyway, if he’s telling the truth, we have no legal reason to keep him in the brig, and if he’s lying and is still a Q… well, where we hold him won't make the slightest difference anyway.”

Q raises his hands in frustrated agreement. At least one member of the crew has an IQ greater than the decorative foliage. 

Hoying sighs. “Assign him quarters and post security to keep an eye on him.” 

Maldonado nods as the doctor gestures for his data pad. As Hoying hands it over, he points to the top of the screen with a frown. The doctor laughs. “I needed more than a single letter to create an entry in the medical records. I remember you mentioning this as a preference?”

Hoying grins broadly and looks up. “That I did. Welcome to the USS Fragaria, Mitch.” 

“That’s not my name,  _ Scott _ .”

The grin doesn’t diminish in the least. “It is now!”

 

***

 

“What is this?” Q asks, poking at the shredded...meat? He thinks it’s meat...with a fork. 

“Barbecue,” Lieutenant Commander Kaplan says, wiping some sauce away from his mouth with a napkin. “Replicated, unfortunately, but still the best food on the ship. The coleslaw is real cabbage though. I grow them in hydroponics when there’s room between experiments.”

“You’re eating a meal named after me? Should I be flattered or concerned about cannibalism?”

Kaplan pauses with his next forkful of vegetation only halfway to his mouth. “What?”

“Barbed Q.”

Kaplan laughs, voice unnaturally deep. “ _ Barbecue _ is a traditional method of preparation. It’s pork.” He takes his bite, grinning as he chews. “Barbed Q, that’s a good one. Scott’ll get a kick out of it.”

“Oh, well as long as  _ Scott’s _ amused.” Mitch stabs at the meat and tries it. Huh. Strange consistency. Tangy. Pleasantly salty. It takes substantial time to chew though, which Q still finds awkward.

Kaplan’s staring at him, a strange not-smile on his face. 

“What?”

“What is it with you and the Captain, anyway? If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were pulling each other’s pigtails.”

Did that makes sense in his head? “Neither of us have tails. Nor are we pigs.” He takes another bite of pork. “Unless you really are into cannibalism.”

“No, really. Out of all the beings in the universe, why did you choose to focus your mischief on this one?”

That...is an interesting question. Q doesn’t know, and he’s not used to not knowing. “I don’t have to explain myself to a human.”

Kaplan wipes at his face again. “I’m not fully human. And the abilities my Betazoid grandfather gave me mean I’m aware that you have no idea.” 

Huh. Q didn’t know that either. Which is infuriating. “A Q doesn’t explain himself to a humanoid. Is that better?”

“You’re not a Q.”

“I most certainly--” He cuts himself off because it suddenly hits him that he’s  _ not _ . Not any longer. It’s ridiculous that the realization has taken so long, and he blames that on his newfound humanity, too.

Kaplan’s expression is irritatingly sympathetic. “Still adjusting, huh? Self identification can be difficult to wrestle with after big changes, especially when those changes weren’t by choice.”

That’s an understatement. Everything has changed. His abilities, his lifespan...well, the fact that he even  _ has  _ a lifespan. But his  _ name _ ? He still thinks of himself as a Q, but if he’s not Q, how can he be...Q? And if he’s not Q, then who is he? Scott was half-joking before, but could he be  _ Mitch _ ? Does he want to  _ be  _ Mitch?

“Why not try being Mitch?” Kaplan says, stuffing some yellow breadlike substance into his mouth.

Mitch blinks. “Your quarter-Betazoid ancestry is enough to let you read my thoughts?”

“Nah, you’re thinking out loud.”

Great.

Mitch is obviously in desperate need of a distraction, and the partially incinerated pork substance is in no way sufficient. “What do you do for fun on this dismal little ship?”

 

***

 

Kaplan has to return to duty in the science labs, but he settles Mitch in with Commander Maldonado as his latest chaperone. Well, companion. She doesn’t look particularly thrilled with this turn of circumstance, but she manages a pleasant-enough smile all the same.

A few moments later, Mitch finds himself sitting across from her at a table in Ten Forward. 

“Well,” he says, eying the two crewmembers playing three-dimensional chess a few tables away, and the three others quietly arguing over whatever is on their shared datapad. “This is downright thrilling. I should have left you the pool.”

“It’ll liven up once beta shift is over; there’s an open decks night scheduled this evening.”

Mitch is pretty sure he’s still fluent in pretty much every Federation form of communication and yet that last sentence is just  _ indecipherable _ . “I don’t know what that means.”

She waves her hand dismissively. “The important thing is that right now there’s alcohol, which Avi seems to think you’ll appreciate in your current state of mind, and later there will be very loud music and a dance floor, which  _ I’ll  _ appreciate after the stress of dealing with you.”

“Drinks and dancing? This sounds very cliche.” Mitch has a sudden, horrible thought. “You’re not attempting to seduce me, are you Commander?” Because ew.

He’s not sure whether Maldonado’s loud burst of laughter is reassuring or insulting. “Says the guy who literally tried to woo the Captain with dinner and a movie?”

“That’s not what happened!”

She raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, that’s technically what happened, but it’s not what actually happened!”

“Riiight.”

Maybe the alcohol is a good idea after all.

 

***

 

Mitch wakes up in his quarters the next morning, tucked into bed, but with no recollection of how he got there. What he does know is that he’s  _ dying _ .

His head is pounding, his mouth feels dry and pasty, his limbs are sore, and his skin, when he manages to move his hand far enough to touch his forehead, feels damp and clammy. 

He risks opening his eyes, only to slam them shut again when the light stabs directly through them and into his brain.

“Computer,” he whispers, voice sounding as bad as he feels. “Lights to twenty percent.”

Even the volume of the acknowledgement chirp is conspiring to kill him, and it’s at that point that enough is enough. “Mitch to sickbay. Medical emergency.”

It seems to take several eons for Dr. Olusola to arrive, which is unacceptable given the extent of Mitch’s suffering. He kneels beside the bed and pulls out one of his primitive devices to run a scan, while Mitch mentally runs through all the humanoid causes of death by headache he can remember. 

Brain tumour? Intracranial hemorrhage? Bacterial meningitis? Cerebral arteriovenous malformation?

Olusola snaps his tricorder shut. “You’re hungover.”

What? Mitch reaches up and frantically feels around his throat. “Someone hanged me?” He knew he shouldn’t have trusted Maldonado. It’s always the pretty ones.

The doctor snorts. “No. It means you ingested too much ethanol last night and you’re suffering the effects as your body struggles to process it and its metabolites.”

So she poisoned him instead. “Is it fatal? Because it feels like it might be fatal. Is there any hope of recovery?”

Olusola’s mentally laughing at him now. Mitch can sense it, even if he doesn’t know why. “At this level, if left untreated, you’ll be fine within a day.”

“I have to feel like this for a full _ day _ ?”

“Or,” Olusola continues, “I could give you a hypospray that would negate the worst of it, and you could drink some water and eat something, and feel pretty much like yourself within five minutes.”

Well, that does sound better. Except, “I’ll still be human.”

Olusola has the audacity to laugh out loud. “That’s not something I’m usually trying to cure.”

Mitch grunts.  It’s a hell of an oversight, considering the terminal nature of the condition. 

Olusola administers the hypospray and orders some cool water from the replicator, helping Mitch sit up to drink it. It seems to help, as does the toast he insists Mitch eat a few minutes later.

“Do you have any questions for me before I go?” Olusola asks, leaning against the wall beside Mitch’s bed. “Anything else you’re struggling to adapt to?”

Besides the inevitable and inexorable march of time that spells his doom? Mitch mentally waves that away, and then ponders the question. As he just proved, he’s mostly mastered eating, and bathing and the humiliation that is eliminating waste products are coming along as well. There is one thing he’s still confused by. “I needed to lift an object yesterday and couldn’t. I thought it was just beyond the capacity of the human body, but Lieutenant Sallee offered to help and lifted it easily. What did I do wrong?”

“Ah,” Olusola says. “There are ultimate limits on how much humans can lift or carry, however there’s substantial variation based on an individual’s genetics, health, age, and level of fitness. There’s not much you can do about the innate attributes, but fitness can be increased dramatically through regular physical exercise.”

Mitch wrinkles his nose. “That sounds...unpleasant.”

Olusola smiles again. “I actually enjoy it. My shift is over in twenty minutes. Come to the gym with me and we’ll find something you won’t hate.”

 

***

 

Mitch hates it all.

True to his word and after they’ve changed into special ‘work out clothes’, Olusola runs through several of the gyms options with him. Mitch tries running on a treadmill, which is far too much like one of the wheels that humans make rodents run in for Mitch’s comfort. Weightlifting, which Mitch appreciates would help with the whole lifting of objects thing, is painful and boring. Aerobics, which involves a manically cheerful instructor on a viewscreen ordering Mitch to jump and step and squat and just, no. 

After five minutes of ‘spinning’, which involves a stationary replica of a primitive transportation device and somehow manages to combine all the parts Mitch dislikes most of both running and weightlifting, Olusola sighs and leads Mitch over to another doorway.

“Okay, maybe an actual sport will be more your speed. We have a small holodeck attached to the fitness centre where specific facilities can be brought up on demand.” He frowns at the screen beside the door. “It’s in use, but only by one person. We can try whatever they’re doing.”

The door opens to reveal a small lobby, shelves and hooks holding equipment, and two rooms with wooden floors, separated from the lobby by a wall of glass. Colourful lines are painted on both the floors and the non-glass walls in distinct but confusing patterns. A large male wearing athletic gear like Mitch’s own as well as some sort of eyewear is in the room on the right, holding a stick with a net-like panel on the end and using it to repeatedly bounce a ball off the far wall.

Mitch takes a moment to admire the broad shoulders coated in a thin sheen of sweat, before registering the inked flowers covering one of them, as well as the blond hair on his head.

It’s Scott. Well now, things are looking up.

Scott eventually misses his ball and notices he’s no longer alone when he turns to retrieve it. “Oh, um. Hi.”

“Captain,” Olusola greets pleasantly. “Sorry to interrupt. We’re trying to discover activities Mitch might enjoy. Do you mind if we use the other court?”

Scott spares a long look at Mitch before focusing back on the doctor. “No, that’s fine, Kev. Go ahead.”

Olusola chooses two stick things, a ball, and some glasses and gloves while Mitch finds himself mesmerized by the sight of Scott bouncing the ball and twisting to hit it. It’s a simple enough movement, although the way the muscles in Scott’s arm, back, and legs move each time he swings suggests it’s good exercise indeed.

“I have to admit I don’t have much experience with racquetball,” Olusola says, heading for the other room, er, court. “But I’m sure we can muddle through well enough to see if you’ll like it, and if not, we can load up a holographic instr--”

“Scott will teach me.” Mitch puts his hands on his hips. “He obviously has experience.”

Scott’s clearly overheard, pausing his workout again to watch them.

Olusola winces. “Asking the captain to share space he’s not using is very different from demanding he give up his leisure time to--”

“I’ll do it,” Scott says. 

“Are you sure this is a precedent you want to set?”

Scott laughs. “Oh, watching him fall on his ass will be worth caving in. Just this once.”

Mitch  _ isn’t  _ going to fall on his ass. 

A few minutes later, he’s reassessing his prediction. Not literally, he’s not actually in much danger of falling, but racquetball is harder than it looks. Part of the problem is that Mitch is having to mirror everything Scott shows him rather than just copy it, due to the strange way the opposite sides of their bodies seem dominant. But mostly it’s a lack of coordination on his part. Humanoid limbs are a menace.

Apart from laughing a little too hard when Mitch smacks himself in the face with a badly returned ball -- ah, that’s what the glasses are for -- it turns out that Scott’s a good teacher. He’s snarky and sarcastic, but also patient and skilled.

Scott’s guiding Mitch through the serve motion again, his hands distractingly warm even through Mitch’s T-shirt and the back of his glove, when the comm bursts to life. “Bridge to Captain Hoying.”

There’s a brief hesitation before Scott moves away. “Hoying here.”

“We’re approaching the system, sir. ETA to Neem III is twenty-three minutes.”

“Acknowledged. Be there within twenty.” Scott turns back with almost an apologetic expression. “I have to go. Have fun.” His eyes flick over Mitch once more before he racks his equipment, giving Olusola a friendly slap on the shoulder on his way out the door.

Mitch is… unsettled at his abrupt departure. He’s also done with this exercising bullshit. He takes off his glasses and puts his racket away.

Once he’s done, he turns to find Olusola grinning.

“ _ What? _ ”

“You’re pouting.”

Okay, no. “I’m not pouting.”

“Like a child whose favourite toy has been taken away.”

That is  _ not _ accurate. “Does your captain know you refer to him as a toy?”

“I didn’t say he was a toy to  _ me _ .” Olusola slaps his hands on his thighs and stands up. “Did I mention I have psychological training? That was a four-star distraction technique right there. Lunch?”

Mitch’s stomach chooses that moment to express its opinion. So. Lunch.

 

***

 

The days keep passing and the ship wanders this way and that, establishing a treaty here, taking readings of a gas giant there, industriously doing all the insignificant things humanoids do to justify their brief, bleak existences. 

Mitch spends ninety percent of his time colossally, stupendously, infinitely bored out of his damn mind.

It does get marginally more exciting from time to time, but only because Mitch places bets with himself on whether Hoying & Co will manage to extract themselves from whatever mess they’ve made that day. This morning, while harmlessly inspecting the ship’s hydroponics bay and miniature arboretum, Lieutenant Commanders Kaplan and Kaplan-Koop have managed to poison themselves with what is obviously Neemian vipervine toxin, although Olusola, the science team, and the entirety of the Federation database apparently have no experience with it. 

Kaplan really should be more circumspect in what alien life forms he chooses to cultivate.

This will be interesting; Mitch has a lot riding on it. If Olusola manages to synthesize the antidote before Mitch is forced to step in, he’ll treat himself to some Filden gagh. If not, he’ll settle for Plomeek soup. Plomeek is nutritious and palatable and boring as fuck, while Mitch is interested to see what his human body will make of the gagh. Fifty fifty on whether he just enjoys the wiggly sensation, or suffers a spontaneous and irrevocable round of emesis. Which would apparently be unpleasant, but at least it would be something  _ new _ .

For several hours, Mitch watches through the laboratory viewing window as Olusola tries everything he can think of to find a cure. He’s eventually joined by Scott, who splits his time between pacing back in forth in front of the medical lab, and staring forlornly through the quarantine field at his injured crew members, all the while steadfastly ignoring Mitch’s presence.

It’s touching. And also pathetic. 

Finally, a junior scientist runs in with a cutting of the guilty plant. A little while later, and with what Mitch estimates to be five minutes to spare, Olusola emerges and triumphantly administers his antidote to first Kaplan and then Kaplan-Koop, grinning and nodding at Scott as their life signs slowly stabilize and then improve. 

Scott sighs with so much relief he practically deflates.

Mitch snorts. “Took him long enough. I thought he’d never get there.”

That catches Scott’s attention. “You knew?”

“That the swelling was caused by a vipervine bite and the antidote is a modified Priapusian immunoglobulin? Of course I knew.” Mitch expects Scott to be irritated. Maybe a little chagrined. He isn’t expecting the utter rage he’s suddenly greeted with.

“Why the fuck didn’t you say something? They almost died!”

Mitch shrugs. “You didn’t ask. I would have said something before it got  _ that  _ far. I was curious as to whether the closest thing you have to an intelligent being on this tin can -- besides me -- could figure it out without cheating.”

Huh. Despite all the time he’s spent trying to achieve it, Mitch hadn’t realized Scott’s face could actually reach the same shade as his shirt. “Might I remind you that, by your own admission, you’re a fallible human now? How accurately can you time something as complex as an alien venom wreaking havoc on a human body without your all knowing powers? What if you’d been fucking wrong??”

Bah, Mitch has never been wrong in his… well, technically he has only a couple of weeks experience with  _ this  _ life and its capabilities, so maybe Scott has a point. Not that he’ll ever admit that.

Scott seems to realize they have an audience at about the same time Mitch does, and he grabs Mitch’s arm, dragging him along behind him with a fake smile and a muttered “As you were,” to the staring medical team.

Scott pulls him through several corridors, smiling tightly at passing crew, and not seeming to care that Mitch is having to jog to keep up with his substantially longer legs. Eventually, Scott finds the door he’s looking for and shoves Mitch through it. 

Ah, his personal quarters. Mitch has never arrived this way before.

He isn’t given more time to process. Scott slams his hand on the door control, locking it, before stalking towards Mitch, forcing him backwards and into the opposite wall with a thump.

“Ow! That hurt!” And it did. Perhaps it wasn’t hard enough to be damaging, but apart from a hangover, pain isn’t something Mitch has much experience with. At all.

Scott keeps coming, stepping toe-to-toe with him. He leans in slowly, close enough that Mitch can feel his breath, and whispers, “Don’t be such a fucking baby.”

Mitch shudders, barely biting back a moan. His body--his treacherous, mortal body--clearly appreciates Scott’s aggression; he can feel his cock twitch and his breath quicken. 

He feels vulnerable, fragile and uncertain, but for the first time he  _ likes  _ it. Is thrilled by it. 

He reaches up and grabs Hoying’s hair in both fists, dragging his head down into a brutal kiss. It hurts, but it’s  _ delicious _ .

Scott freezes, and for a moment Mitch thinks he might reject him, but then he’s returning the kiss full force, taking control of it and pressing Mitch into the wall. Mitch can feel his cock hardening in his pants, and Scott’s hardening against his hip.

He whimpers, and Scott pulls back, panting heavily. “I didn’t come for weeks, thanks to you. And now you’re here, getting hard against me.” He presses Mitch further into the wall, rocking into him. “You’re so damn infuriating and frustrating and I want to fuck you until you can’t  _ walk _ .”

Mitch shudders again, and he couldn’t have held back the moan if he tried. Fuck, yes. Excellent idea. Not something Mitch has ever done in this form, but hell if he doesn’t want to see if he likes it.

Scott doesn’t move though, just continues staring down at him with those darkening blue eyes and tightly clenched jaw. Mitch doesn’t understand at first, but finally realizes he’s waiting for permission. 

He grins, tilts his head in challenge. “Then do it, big boy. Fuck me.”

So he does. And not only does Mitch like it, a discovery made while gasping and whining face-first into a pillow, he ends up begging for it. And the next evening, having spent the day tired and sore and reminded of the experience every time he moves, he finds himself back at Scott’s door, begging for it again.

 

***

_ To be concluded... _


	3. Three

Things continue in that vein for a while. Scott does his job as best he can while Mitch winds him up over anything and everything he can think of, and they settle their arguments between the sheets of Scott’s bed in a satisfactorily brutal way on a nightly basis.

Mitch has to admit he’s no longer bored now that he has Scott’s attention. He misses his powers, and he’s still frustrated with the mortally slow pace of discovery, but the cocktail of neurochemicals released in his human brain by the ministrations of Scott’s cock is almost worth it.

Almost.

As time passes, Scott starts to drop snippets of information in conversation; details of scientific studies or diplomatic missions that are novel or intriguing. It’s blatantly obvious that these are morsels being offered as bait, as opportunities to ‘contribute’, but even so, Mitch finds himself becoming _involved_ \-- consulting or even accompanying away missions in cases where knowledge of the planet from his Q days is deemed useful. He’s aware that his motivations are under constant scrutiny, that he’s carefully monitored, but it’s vastly preferable to being confined to the Fragaria.

Well. It was. Right up until the moment he finds himself, Lieutenant Sallee, and three other members of their landing party, whose names he’s neglected to remember, trapped in a room with a Timorian shock weevil the size of a fucking Earth bear. It’s really not what Mitch was expecting when they beamed down to help negotiate a trade agreement.

If Mitch wasn’t currently a squishy, fragile human, he’d probably be rating this development as a delightfully curious distraction, given that he’s never seen one of these beasts outside the Delta Quadrant before. Instead, he’s trying desperately to recall anything that might help their current predicament, beyond the fact that these creatures are viciously aggressive and virtually impossible to kill, because that much is patently obvious. In the few minutes since it appeared, it’s managed to eviscerate the Deputy Minister of Agriculture -- possibly fatally -- and trample zher assistant, despite the large not-entirely-ceremonial swords both were carrying. Mitch has spent enough time aboard the Fragaria to know that this is going to trigger a diplomat shit-storm of epic proportions, but it’s the fact that the creature seems to be impervious to phaser fire and is somehow messing with communications that’s occupying his thoughts right now.   

Imminent doom is even more disconcerting than a mortal’s inevitable march-of-time-related doom, it turns out.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Sallee whispers, eyes tracking the weevil as it stalks slowly around the perimeter of the room, a deep, almost subsonic, growl emanating from its chest. His exclamation is barely audible, but the creatures attention snaps towards Sallee instantly and it charges.

Mitch reacts without thinking - not in a way he’s really conscious of anyhow. He lunges in front the Lieutenant, grabs one of the ceremonial swords off the ground, and thrusts it hard into the creature’s eye socket, the force of its charge driving the blade deep into its skull. It’s only then, as his entire body spasms with a blinding jolt of pain, that he remembers _why_ they’re called _shock_ weevils.

He wakes up in the Fragaria’s sickbay, to an anxious Lieutenant Sallee hovering behind a far more collected Doctor Olusola. Apparently the force of the shock, amplified by their initial phaser fire, was enough to fling him clean across the room, knock him out for a good hour and put a small (and possibly merciful) dent in his memory.

Olusola asks him a number of particularly banal questions and then discharges him to quarters with instructions to rest. And for once, Mitch is perfectly content to follow orders. Luckily, Olusola didn’t actually specify _whose_ quarters.  

 

***  


Mitch is resting comfortably in the Captain’s bed for a full three hours before Scott himself arrives. Mitch understands, Scott has to ensure diplomatic relations are salvaged and the ship gets safely away. But he’s relieved when Scott finally turns up all the same.

Scott stands in the doorway staring down at him for far longer than Mitch expects. Mitch lets him, for awhile, but eventually huffs his impatience. “Are you going to come fuck me, or what?”

“Don’t,” Scott says softly. He licks his lips and steps closer, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Mitch scoffs. “Oh please, the hangover I had to endure trying to match your first officer drink-for-drink was worse than this.”

He tries to sit up, tries to reach for Scott, but Scott just eases him back down. “Let me.”

Mitch has no idea what he’s agreeing to, but he lets him.

Half an hour later, and for the first time in his long existence, Mitch comes slowly, softly, rocking on the gentle fingers pressing into his prostate just right, surrounded by a warm mouth that swallows every drop he pumps into it.

Despite having done nothing but beautifully orgasm, he’s so tired by the time it’s over that he can barely process Scott crawling up to lay beside him. But even in his exhausted state, he can tell Scott’s still hard and deserves a return of the favour.

Scott captures the hand he reaches out with, squeezing it in his own and pressing a kiss to Mitch’s forehead. “Go to sleep.”

“But you need--”

“I have everything I need. Go to sleep.”

And so Mitch sleeps.

 

***

 

Things are different after that. Still antagonistic. Still fun. But different. More thoughtful. More caring. Even the rest of the crew, after taking in how obviously content Scott seems to be, relaxes more around Mitch. He starts to make friends besides Scott. They spend time with him because they want to, not out of babysitting duty or fear. He has lunch with a grateful Lieutenant Sallee. Restarts fitness training with Dr. Olusola...Kevin. Explores the ship’s tiny arboretum with Lieutenant Commander Kaplan and regularly goes dancing with Kirstin.

It’s...nice.

Mitch is disturbed that he finds it nice, honestly, but there’s no help for it. It’s just...nice.

 

***

 

It all falls apart because nothing about mortals ever lasts. It’s the very definition of being mortal and while Mitch understands the concept in principle, he never realized how much pain it causes even those who aren’t the one dying.

It happens in a flash. Literally.

Scott’s being entertained by the Magistrate Prime of Mugilidae, escorting her around the garden party she’s thrown in their honour, expressing what Mitch thinks might be admiration for the universe’s ugliest set of lawn sculptures. The one he’s currently being told about is huge and phallic, but in a not-at-all attractive way, and Mitch honestly has no idea how Scott is keeping not only a straight but an appreciative face right now.

On a probably-related note, he hasn’t so much as glanced in Mitch’s direction the entire time. Mitch would take being ignored personally, except he’s almost certain Scott’s just trying not to laugh and destroy any hope of continued diplomatic relations.

But in the next moment, all thoughts of aesthetics and diplomacy vanish because the sculpture explodes in a blast of light. Mitch reflexively ducks and doesn’t see what happens to the Magistrate, but watches with horror as Scott is thrown across the plaza. His lover’s body smashes through a floor-to-ceiling window pane and slams to an abrupt and sickening halt into the ditanium wall behind it.

Mitch doesn’t remember crossing the lawn, but he’s suddenly kneeling beside him, cradling his head and trying to ignore how much red blood is smeared on the wall and pooling under his knees.

Scott blinks up at him, whole broken body shaking. “Not...not gon’ call me a baby?”

Mitch huffs a laugh, amused even as he feels his face twist with despair and the foreign sensation of tears stings his eyes. “Don’t die, baby.” He wants it to be a joke, but it doesn’t sound like one even to him.

He’s pulled out of the way the next moment, and he can tell by how frantically Kevin’s working, in the few seconds before they’re beamed away, that Scott’s going to disobey him, joke or not.

 

***

 

Mitch doesn’t pray. Of course he doesn’t, he’s spent all but a few months of his eternity as a god and every other god he’s ever met is a selfish, fickle thing who does absolutely nothing except watch lower lifeforms, occasionally interfere out of pure boredom, as he himself was prone to do. But standing outside the surgical field of the Fragaria’s sickbay, he does the next best thing.

“Q!” There’s a long moment of silence, and Mitch clenches his hands into fists. “Answer me, damn it, Q!”

“Well, well. Look who’s crawling back the first time he needs something.”

Mitch turns and finds Q, the one who entertains himself by poking Picard with a stick whenever he feels like it, leaning against the nearby bulkhead. “Help him!”

Q scoffs in a way only a Q can. “Why would I want to do that? It’s truly touching watching you experience the full range of human emotions. What’s this one? Grief? Fear? How does it feel?”

Mitch grits his teeth. “What do I have to do for you to help him?”

“Say please.”

Mitch hopes Kevin is as good a dentist as he is a doctor. “ _Please._ ”

“Oh, that was _very_ well done. Did it hurt?” Q asks, affecting a close examination of his cuticles. “But, no. I don’t think I’ll help him.”

That’s...that’s _unacceptable_. “You wouldn’t want help if the situation was reversed and your precious Jean-Luc was dying?”

Q throws his head back and laughs. “Oh, I do find Jean-Luc amusing, but our relationship is hardly the same as the one you have with Captain Hoying, is it? My my, the things you’ve been getting up to. Sex in every conceivable position. Falling in love. Disgustingly human of you.” He shudders. “I’m frankly appalled.”

He’s frankly an asshole. “ _Q._ ”

“However, the Q you offended with your lack of restraint is impressed with your newfound…” he pauses and swallows heavily, “Ugh, this hurts to say. Your newfound _humility_. If you were to apologize for disrupting her experiment, and by apologize I mean utterly prostrate yourself and beg for mercy in front of all of us, she might now be more willing to believe your sincerity and allow the return of your powers. Then you could do what you like. Including saving your mortal.”

Mitch freezes. “She’d recommend the restoration my powers?”

Q shrugs. “She might. You won’t feel the same about him though. You’ll be Q again. Infinity spread out before you, and little pull to stay with your human lover. You might not even bother saving his life.”

Bullshit. Mitch remembers being Q, and perhaps the ennui and self-indulgence will dull his feelings again, but if he cared enough about Scott before his transformation to cockblock him at every opportunity, he’ll care enough after to keep him alive.

And while he regrets the possible loss of his love for Scott and the hurt it might cause Scott himself, if it happens he’ll no longer be capable of regret, and Scott will be alive to be hurt. Humiliating himself in front of the entire Continuum will be a small price to pay.

Mitch nods acceptance, and for the second time that day, there’s a bright flash of light, this one bringing the very opposite of death.

 

***

 

Mitch is sitting on the edge of the biobed when Scott wakes. He’s fine, not a scratch on him, and no evidence of the frantic efforts to save his life are still present in sickbay.

His forehead wrinkles as he swims up to consciousness. “Ow.”

Mitch smirks. “Don’t be such a baby.”

Blue eyes blink open. “Mitch?” Scott looks around the room, taking in the peace and the quiet and probably the lack of it being a morgue tube. “I could have sworn...wasn’t I dying?”

Mitch winces at the reminder, flashing back to the crunch of glass and blood under his knees. And it’s at that moment that he realizes that everything he felt, every emotion he’s had the last few weeks, is still there. He’s Q once again, but he’s still Mitch as well.

And it’s Mitch he wants to be.

“I called in a favour,” Mitch says, smoothing Scott’s hair back from his forehead. “Picard’s Q owed me one.”

“ _I heard that,_ ” Q says from the corner, although not in a way Scott’s human ears can hear. _“Like_ I’d _ever owe_ you _a favour_.”

“ _Fuck off and bother your own human,_ ” Mitch thinks back at him.

Q snorts and flashes away.

Scott’s still looking confused. “You called in a favour for me?”

Mitch smiles. “Turns out there’s a lot I’d do for you.”

 

***

 

A human lifespan isn’t very long. A hundred and twenty Federation standard years, give or take. A hundred and forty at most. Mitch spends most of that time doing a damn fine impression of being human himself. He rarely uses his powers, and never in sight of Scott.

He saves Scott’s life three more times on away missions and again when the admiralty is attacked shortly after he’s promoted. As Scott ages, he tweaks a few things. Keeps his arteries clear, helps his pancreas along, ensures his bones, muscles, and faculties all remain strong. He might also make a few...improvements to his aging sex drive along the way, purely for noble reasons of course.

He also saves Matt’s life once, and Kirstin’s twice, once while she’s still a Commander and once after she’s given her own command. He masks himself for medical exams, and manages to produce a fully human genetic code consistent with his appearance when he and Scott decide to have children. Fully human, natural children, aided only by the in vitro procedure and incubator required to allow two human males to procreate.

Okay, so there’s one time after he promises Scott he’ll wrap all the Christmas presents for the grandchildren, and then remembers he hasn’t three seconds before the little monsters burst through the door. He might possibly cheat just that once to avoid the familial and marital fallout.

Otherwise he’s content with the human life he’s built for himself. He loves Scott, and most of their friends and family, and while he sometimes regrets the lie he’s told his lover, it’s well worth it to keep everything he has.

But it all passes so quickly. One moment, they’re young and virile and fucking each other with all the intensity and passion they can muster, and the next they’re old and wrinkled, Scott naturally and Mitch to match, and Scott’s holding him gently, easing them through what Mitch knows will be their last time making love.

They come gently, together, in Scott’s big hand. Mitch wants to draw it out, wants to savour it, but he’s never succumbed to the temptation of using his powers during sex and he refuses to start now.

So instead he smiles into Scott’s kiss, and helps clean them up, and then listens to his husband’s soft snores until the stroke Mitch can no longer keep from occurring without fundamentally altering Scott’s humanity finally ends his life.

Mitch smiles again, softly, and claps, and they both disappear in a flash of bright light.

 

***

 

Scott wakes to the sound of waves crashing on a beach and the chirp of tropical birds.

He drowsily opens his eyes; the hand he’s got resting in front of his face and the clean white comforter under it are the only things in focus. There’s something off about his hand, and it takes him a dishearteningly long time to work out what it is. But eventually, the blond hair on the back of his fingers, the brighter tattoos, and the smooth skin, unmarred by wrinkles or age spots, all percolate through his foggy brain. He rolls over in bed to find it empty, but that’s fine because it gives him a moment to really appreciate how easily he manages it, how his creaking back and bum knee don’t twinge in the slightest. A quick peek under the covers reveals more smooth, unblemished skin, and a waist with significantly less paunch and more muscle mass than he remembers.

“Um,” Mitch’s voice comes from Scott’s right, and he turns to see his husband --  his young, beautiful husband -- standing at what looks like a balcony window, sheer white curtains fluttering in the breeze beside him. From the sounds Scott can hear and the wedge of sky he can see, his best guess is they’re in a luxury suite on a pleasure planet, or more likely a good facsimile of one. It’s definitely an upgrade from the comfortable but practical bedroom Scott fell asleep in. “I have a confession.”

Scott snorts and sits up, fluffing his pillows into a back rest. Might as well be comfortable as he starts his afterlife. “Lemme guess. You’ve had all the power of a Q for our entire marriage?”

Mitch grimaces as he makes his way back to the bed, sitting on the edge. “That didn’t take you as long as I thought. Are you mad?”

“At what? I’ve known the whole time.”

“You did not!” Mitch’s nose wrinkles in a way Scott’s found ridiculously endearing for the past century. “I was careful.”

Technically true, except all the times he wasn’t. “How stupid do you think I am?”

And there’s the smirk Scott knows so well. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

Wow. “You’re an asshole.”

“Now I know you’ve known _that_ for our whole marriage.” Mitch crosses his arms over his chest. “Okay, genius. How’d you figure it out?”

Seriously? “Well for one, despite being together for over a hundred years, we never once ran out of lube.”

Mitch opens his mouth in what he clearly plans to be a clever retort, but the only thing that comes out is “Oh.”

“Oh,” Scott repeats, grinning. He leans back, clasping his hands behind his head. “I’m not sure whether to be flattered that you never wanted to risk delaying sex even the twelve seconds it would take to replicate another bottle, or annoyed that we never really needed it in the first place.”

Mitch looks almost apologetic for a second, before his smirk is back in full force. He slides his palm across Scott’s stomach and then walks his fingers up his chest. Scott resists the urge to suck in his belly, because for the first time in decades he’s back in prime shape, so it’s unnecessary. “Well, we still would have needed it occasionally, or did you forget all those times it was _your_ very human ass on the line?”

Oh, he hasn’t forgotten; in fact, he looks forward to revisiting that situation. Maybe in a facsimile of his old command chair or bent over a bridge console like he’s always wanted but never dared.

However, that’s not what’s going to happen today. He gently surrounds Mitch’s hand in his own, squeezing it softly before tightening his grip and pulling a startled Mitch down on top of him. Then he uses the momentum to roll them both over, pinning Mitch beneath him.

“Ow!” Mitch complains, despite the fact it couldn’t possibly have hurt, even if they were still subject to human limitations.

Scott just grins, appreciating the fact that Mitch is already hard, and trails a line of kisses up his neck before whispering, “Don’t be such a fucking baby.”

  
  
**END**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We had a great time writing this. Let us know what you think!


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